23rd Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

Wis 9:13-18b; Ps 90:3-4, 5-6, 12-13, 14, 17;  Phil 1:9-10, 12-17; Lk 14:25-33.

It is said that long ago in the days of the Scottish Highlands, there was a young chieftain who inherited a vast but troubled clan. His people were poor, surrounded by rival clans who were stronger, and the English crown often demanded allegiance that would compromise their independence. One day, he was summoned by the king himself and offered a place of safety, wealth, and honor—if he would agree to surrender his clan’s autonomy and allow English soldiers to occupy their land. The young chieftain was torn. Accepting would mean comfort and survival, but it would betray his people’s heritage and everything his father and grandfather had fought to protect. Refusing would mean war, sacrifice, and perhaps even death. After a night of sleeplessness, he told his council, “If I must die to remain faithful to what I was born to protect, then I will die. For what use is a chieftain who saves his life but loses the soul of his clan?” The cost was real—battle followed, losses were great—but his decision kept the honor of his people alive for generations."

When Jesus turned to the large crowds following Him and spoke the words we heard in Luke 14:25–33, He was confronting people with a similar question. Many followed Him with curiosity, others in hope of miracles, others perhaps thinking He would

bring political freedom from Rome. But Jesus, unlike the leaders of this world who try to keep their followers by promises of ease, did the opposite: He laid out the most difficult terms imaginable. He did not flatter the crowd with assurances of comfort. Instead, He told them plainly that to be His disciple meant to “hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters—yes, even their own life.” In other words, allegiance to Him must surpass every earthly tie, even the most sacred bonds of family. He was not commanding literal hatred but absolute priority, a loyalty so complete that compared to it, all other loves would seem small. And then He added that whoever does not carry their cross and follow Him cannot be His disciple. To the ears of the first century, “carrying the cross” was not a poetic metaphor. It meant a sentence of death. It meant shame, rejection, and loss.

The examples He gave—of a man building a tower who first sits down to count the cost, and of a king weighing the odds before going to war—were not random illustrations. They were warnings: discipleship is not a matter of impulse or emotional excitement; it is a commitment that will demand everything, and you must know this before you begin. Jesus ended with the uncompromising statement: “Those of you who do not give up everything you have cannot be my disciples.”

This truth is not new in the history of God’s dealings with His people. The prophets of the Old Testament knew it well. When God called Abraham, it meant leaving his homeland, his father’s house, and walking into a land he had never seen, trusting only God’s promise. Moses, raised in Pharaoh’s palace, turned his back on royal privilege to identify with his oppressed people, enduring the wilderness and their constant complaints. Elijah confronted King Ahab and Queen Jezebel, knowing full well it could cost him his life. Jeremiah, often called the “weeping prophet,” was beaten, imprisoned, and thrown into a cistern for speaking the truth God gave him. Ezekiel lay on his side for hundreds of days, ate meager rations, and bore the mockery of his countrymen. The cost of obedience was high for every one of them—sometimes it meant exile, sometimes hunger, sometimes death—but their eyes were fixed on the One who called them.

The saints and martyrs of the Church followed in the same path. St. Stephen, the first Christian martyr, saw the heavens open and Christ standing at the right hand of God, but the price was a storm of stones that ended his life. St. Ignatius of Antioch, on his way to execution in Rome, wrote letters urging the faithful not to try to save him from the lions, for he longed to be “God’s wheat, ground by the teeth of beasts to become pure bread for Christ.” St. Thomas More, counselor to King Henry VIII, refused to betray the authority of the Church even for the favor of the king, and paid with his head. St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein), a brilliant philosopher and Jewish convert to Catholicism, followed Christ all the way to the gas chambers of Auschwitz. Each one had counted the cost—and each one found that the loss of life in this world was gain in the next.

Even kings, in their own way, have faced the price of following God. King David, though flawed, chose repentance over pride when confronted by the prophet Nathan. He risked his throne by humbling himself before God. King Josiah, upon hearing the rediscovered Book of the Law, tore his robes, reformed the kingdom, and abolished idol worship, though it meant alienating powerful factions. In contrast, King Saul, unwilling to pay the cost of full obedience, compromised—and lost his kingdom.  Saint Louis IX of France, remembered for his justice and devotion, poured royal resources into feeding the poor and building hospitals, to the dismay of courtiers who thought it beneath a king. His reign was marked not by self-indulgence but by self-denial. King Alfred the Great of England, though more a statesman than a saint, endured exile, loss, and years of struggle to defend his people, grounding his rule in the moral law of God’s Word. These rulers knew that to reign under Christ’s authority was to reign as servants, not as lords in their own right—a concept that often cost them politically, militarily, and personally.

But the cost has never been borne only by great figures. In ancient cultures, ordinary believers faced immense pressures to conform. In the early Church, a craftsman in Ephesus who became Christian might lose his livelihood because he would no longer make idols for the pagan temples. A soldier in the Roman army who converted might be ordered to perform sacrifices to the emperor and face death for refusing. In some villages of the Middle East or Africa even today, a young woman who chooses to follow Christ against her family’s wishes risks being cast out, left without protection or provision.

In our modern world, the forms are different, but the cost remains. To stand for Christ’s teaching on integrity, justice, and truth may mean losing promotions, friendships, or even personal safety. For some, discipleship may cost the comfort of silence when speaking truth is unpopular. For others, it may mean rejecting dishonest gains in business, even if it means financial loss. For young people, it might mean resisting peer pressure at the expense of popularity. For families, it might mean making choices about how they spend time and resources that the world will never understand. For Christians in hostile nations, the cost may still be prison, exile, or death.

And yet, in all these cases, what is given up is nothing compared to what is gained. Jesus did not tell us to count the cost because He wanted to discourage us; He told us to count the cost because He wanted us to see that He is worth it. A man who gives away all he owns to buy a field with a hidden treasure does not think of himself as poor—he thinks of himself as rich beyond measure. The apostles who left nets and boats behind found themselves entrusted with the Gospel that would change the world. Those who have carried the cross have discovered, paradoxically, that in losing life for Christ, they find it.

The question is whether we are willing to be that man, that woman, that disciple who not only begins the journey but finishes it. There is nothing sadder than a foundation laid and a tower never built, or a soul that once burned with zeal for Christ but turned back when the price became too high. Discipleship is not a decision made once and forgotten—it is a choice renewed daily, sometimes hourly, as we take up the cross again and again. To follow Him is to walk in His footsteps, and His footsteps lead to the cross—but also beyond it, to the empty tomb, to the right hand of the Father, to a joy no cost can outweigh. Those who have gone before us—prophets, saints, martyrs, kings, and countless ordinary believers—bear witness that it is worth it. They stand as a great cloud of witnesses, urging us to run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith.

The choice is before us. The cost is real. But so is the crown.

Satish